Death on the Installment Plan

by Louis-Ferdinand Celine

  Édouard infected us with his confidence. We couldn’t wait to see him. We didn’t even finish our cheese. In two seconds flat my mother and I were out in the street … A short bus ride, the Boulevards, the rue Elzévir … Five flights … They were still at table when we rang the bell. They ate bread soup too, big bowls of it, and then noodles with cheese, and nuts for dessert. They’d been expecting us. My uncle had sung my praises. We had come at just the right moment … They didn’t gild the pill … They didn’t try to hide anything … They were having a hell of a time with their engraved ornaments … They made no bones about it … for twelve years there hadn’t been anything doing … They were still waiting for things to pick up … They were moving heaven and earth … but the resurrection didn’t come … The customers had other things in mind. Ruin was staring them in the face.

  Even so, Monsieur Gorloge was holding out, he was putting up a fight … He still had hope … He dressed like Uncle Arthur … the happy artist, with a goatee, a flowing bow tie, long pointed shoes, and a baggy smock all covered with wine spots … He sat there at his ease. He was smoking, you couldn’t even see him behind the eddies of smoke … He fanned it away with his hand.

  Madame Gorloge sat across the table from him on a low stool. Her tits were squashed against the workbench, she was round all over, magnificent bulges … Her curves overflowed from her apron … she was cracking nuts with her fists … a staggering blow from way up, enough to split the table wide open. The whole workshop shook … She was quite a number … a former model … I found that out later … The type appealed to me.

  As for wages, the subject didn’t even come up. We didn’t want to be indiscreet. That would come later … I didn’t expect him to offer anything. But then he made up his mind after all, just as we were leaving. He said I could expect a regular wage … thirty-five francs a month … transportation included … And besides I had prospects … a sizable bonus if by my efforts I succeeded in reviving the engraver’s craft. He thought me a little young, but that didn’t matter because I had the sacred fire … because I’d grown up in the racket … because I’d been born in a shop! … It was a deal … all very heartwarming … one cheery remark after another …

  We went home to the Passage full of enthusiasm … The rainbow at last. We finished our meal. We emptied the jam pots. Papa took three helpings of wine. He let a fine fart … like he’d almost stopped doing … We kissed Uncle Édouard … There was wind in our sails again after the awful famine.

  The next day I went to the rue Elzévir bright and early to get my collection.

  The way Monsieur Gorloge was lounging around when I came in, I thought he”d forgotten me … He was sitting at the wide-open window, looking at the rooftops. Between his knees he had a big bowl of coffee. He wasn’t doing a damn thing, that was plain. The view amused him … the thousands of courtyards in the Petit Marais … He had a dazed dreamy look … That can be mighty fascinating, it can’t be denied. The lovely lacework of slate … the light playing over it … the intermingled colors … the way the gutters twist and twine. And the sparrows hopping about … And the wisps of smoke coiling over the deep chasms of shadow …

  He motioned me to keep my trap shut and listen to things … to take in the scene … He didn”t like to be disturbed … He must have thought me rather uncouth. He gave me a sulky look.

  All around the court, from top to bottom, at every window it was like a Punch and Judy show … heads popping out … bald ones, bushy ones, pale faces … squealing, griping, whistling … And then different noises … A watering can tips, falls, bounces down on the big cobblestones below … A pot of geraniums slips … and flops kerplunk on the concierge’s lodge. It breaks into smithereens. The concierge comes bounding out of her grotto … flinging her cries out into space. Help! … Bloody murder! … The whole house is in an uproar … Every pest in the place rushes to the window … They spew fire … they spit at each other … They challenge each other across the void … They’re all yelling at once … You can’t make out who’s in the right …

  Monsieur Gorloge hangs out the window … He doesn’t want to miss one crumb … He’s crazy about these scenes … When things quiet down, he’s heartbroken … He heaves a sigh … and then another … He goes back to his bread and butter … He pours himself another bowl … he offers me some coffee too …

  “Ferdinand,” he finally says, “I’d better tell you again that it’s not going to be any sinecure selling my merchandise … I’ve had ten salesmen already … They were good boys, nothing wrong with them! And plenty of grit! … Actually you’re the twelfth, because to tell you the truth, I’ve tried my hand at it too … Well, there you have it … Anyway, come back tomorrow. I’m not in form today … And … well no, hang around awhile … Monsieur Antoine will be coming in … Maybe I ought to introduce you … Oh well, you might as well be leaving at that … I’ll tell him I’ve hired you … Won’t he be surprised! He doesn’t like salesmen! He’s my first assistant … my foreman in fact … He’s a tough customer … no doubt about that. You’ll know that as soon as you lay eyes on him. But he’s very helpful … yes, yes, I can’t deny it … I want you to meet little Robert too, our apprentice … He’s a good kid. You’ll get along fine, I’m sure. He’ll give you the collection … It’s in the bottom of the closet … It’s unique, see what I mean? … It’s pretty heavy though … About thirty pounds … Nothing but models … Copper and lead … The earliest pieces date back to my father … He had some beautiful things! Unique! Unique! I remember seeing his Trocadéro! … All handcarved, mounted as a diadem. Can you imagine? It was worn twice … I still have the photograph. I’ll show it to you one of these days …”

  Gorloge was sick of explaining … He was disgusted again, fed up … He made a last effort … He put his feet on the table … He let out a deep sigh … He was wearing embroidered slippers, I can still see them … with kittens running around on them …

  “Well, Ferdinand, better go on home … Give your mother my best regards … On your way out would you tell the concierge to run over to the café at Number 26 and make a phone call for me … Tell her to call the Three Admirals Hotel and see if Antoine is sick … he’s plumb crazy … to find out if anything has happened to him … He hasn’t been in for two days now … She can yell up to me from the court … Tell her to look it up in the phone book … The Three Admirals … Tell her to send up some milk … The old lady isn’t feeling very well … Tell her to send up the paper … any old paper … Well, maybe the Sports News …”

  It wasn’t next day, but the day after that I finally got to see the collection … Gorloge had understated … Thirty pounds! … It weighed at least twice that much … He had vaguely suggested certain “sales techniques” … but nothing very definite … He wasn’t really sold on any of them … I could do exactly as I pleased … He relied on my initiative … I expected horrors but I’ve got to admit I had a sinking feeling when I saw that mess close up … It was unbelievable … Never had I seen such a lot of such disgusting monstrosities all at once … A challenge … A pocket inferno …

  Everything we opened was horrible … nothing but gargoyles and bottle imps … made out of lead, turned and tortured, fussed and finicked … it turned your stomach … The whole Symbolist orgy … Chunks of nightmare … A putty “Samothrace” … more “Victories” in the shape of little clocks … Necklaces made out of Medusas, coils of snakes … More chimeras … Hundreds of allegorical rings, one crappier than the next … My work was cut out for me … All those things were supposed to be put on fingers, on belts, or stuck in ties. Or hung on somebody’s ears … It was unbelievable! … Somebody was expected to buy them! Who? Great God, who? No form of dragon, demon, hobgoblin, or vampire was missing … A complete collection of nightmares … A whole world of sleepless nights … The manias of a whole insane asylum served up as trinkets … I was going from punk to horrible … Even in my grandmother’s store on the rue Montorgueil the most moth-eaten white eleph
ants were things of beauty by comparison …

  I’d never be able to make a living with such garbage. I was beginning to see the point about the ten saps before me. They must have been floored … These nightmares weren’t being sold anymore … Since the last of the Romantics people had tucked them away in terror … Maybe people were still passing them around in families … when somebody died … but taking plenty of precautions … It wouldn’t be safe to show such loony stuff to people who hadn’t been warned … They might feel offended. Even Gorloge was afraid to do it … in person, that is. He’d given up buffeting the tide of fashion … The heroism was for me! … I was the last salesman! … Nobody had stuck it out for more than three weeks …

  He himself did nothing but prospect for small repair jobs … to keep the shop going until fashions should change … He had kept up a few connections in the trade … Friends from better days who wouldn’t have wanted to let him starve. They sent jobs his way … settings and patchwork … disgusting toil … but he never touched a finger to it himself … He passed it all on to our Antoine. Gorloge was an engraver … He wasn’t going to ruin his touch doing menial work … he wasn’t going to lose his standing and reputation for a few sous. No, sir. On that score he was adamant.

  At nine o’clock sharp I climbed the stairs on the rue Elzévir, I didn’t wait for him to come down … I flung myself on Paris right away, armed with my zeal and my “few pounds” of samples … Seeing as I was the outside man, they gave me a good outing … I was used to it. From the Bastille to the Madeleine … Miles and miles … All the Boulevards … every single jewelry store, one by one … Not to mention the little side streets … There was no room in my heart for discouragement … To revive the customers’ taste for engraved articles I’d have cut the moon into little pieces. I’d have eaten my dragons. Pretty soon I myself was executing all their grimaces as I walked … Frantically conscientious, I’d wait my turn on the salesmen’s bench outside the buyers’ room.

  I ended up believing in the renaissance of the jewel engraver’s art. I had the faith of a crusader. I didn’t even see my competitors. They went into gales of laughter whenever they heard my name called. When it came my turn at the window, I’d put on my most winning smile, all sweetness and light. Quietly, from behind my back, I’d produce my little jewel case containing the least loathsome items … and put it on the counter … The beast didn’t even bother to say anything … He just made a gesture meaning to clear out … that I was a dirty-minded brat …

  I hurried on … farther and farther. A fanatic doesn’t calculate. Dripping wet in my shell or consumed with thirst, according to the season, I tried the most insignificant little shops, the grimiest little watchmakers, cowering in their suburbs between lamp and globe …

  From La Chapelle to Les Moulineaux, I did them all. I found a gleam of interest in a junk dealer in Pierrefitte and a ragpicker in Saint-Maur. I tried the shopkeepers who’ve been dozing all around the Palais-Royal ever since the days of Camille Desmoulins, under the Arcades Montpensier … the stalls in the Galeries des Pas-Perdus … shopkeepers who’ve lost all hope … grown stiff and sallow behind the counter … They don’t want to live and they don’t want to die. I galloped over to the Odéon … to the last of the Parnassian jewelers in the arcades around the theater. They weren’t even starving anymore, they digested diist. They had their models too, all of lead, almost identical with mine, enough for a thousand coffins … and a whole raft of mythological necklaces … And mounds of amulets, a mass so dense that the counters were sinking into the ground … They were shoulder-deep in the rubbish … they were disappearing, turning into Egyptians … They didn’t even answer when I spoke. Those guys really gave me a scare …

  I went back to the suburbs … When I had ventured too far in my hunt for enthusiasm, when I was caught by nightfall and felt kind of lost, I’d hurry up and take a bus so as not to get home too late. My parents left me fifteen francs out of my monthly thirty-five … It melted away in fares. Without meaning to, by the sheer force of circumstances, I was getting pretty extravagant … Of course I should have walked … but then it goes out in shoe-leather.

  Monsieur Gorloge even got around to the rue de la Paix looking for repair work. The ladies who ran the fashionable shops might have taken a shine to him, the only thing that prevented him from really making a hit was that he wasn’t very clean. On account of his beard. It was always full of scabs … his “sycosis,” as he called it …

  I’d often catch sight of him in a doorway, scratching furiously. Then he’d walk away happy as a lark … He always had a few rings in his pocket to alter, to change the size. A brooch to weld … the one that never stays closed. A watch chain to shorten … some trinket or other … enough to keep his business running … He wasn’t very demanding.

  It was Antoine, his one assistant, who did all these little jobs. Gorloge never touched them. As I was going down the Boulevards, I’d run into him, I’d recognize him in the distance … He didn’t walk like other people … He took an interest in the crowd … He looked in all directions … I could see his hat turning on its hinges. He also attracted attention by the polka dots on his vest … and his hearty manner … he made you think of a musketeer… .

  “Well, Ferdinand, how you doing? Still going strong? Still in there fighting? Everything all right? Everything OK? …”

  “I’m fine, Monsieur Gorloge. Really fine.”

  I’d stand up straight to answer him despite the crushing weight of my saddlebags … My enthusiasm was undiminished. Except that what with making nothing, selling nothing, and hiking all day with that heavy collection, I was getting thinner and thinner … Except for my biceps of course. My feet were still growing. My soul was growing … and everything else … I was getting to be sublime …

  When I got back from my selling tour, I’d run a few more errands for the shop. To some artisan’s. To the wholesaler’s for jewel cases. All that was in the same street.

  Little Robert, the apprentice, was better off tinkering with little settings, filing openwork, or even sweeping out the joint. There was never much harmony in the Gorloge household. They yelled at each other at the top of their lungs, even louder than in our house. Especially between Antoine and the boss, there were terrible brawls. No more respect, especially on Saturday evening when they settled accounts. Antoine was never satisfied … Whether they figured by the piece, by the hour, by the week, regardless of the system, he always complained. And yet he was his own boss, there were no other helpers … “Your lousy joint … you can stick it up your ass! How many times do I have to tell you? …”

  That was the tone they took with each other. You should have seen Gorloge’s face … He scratched his beard … he was so upset he’d nibble at the scales.

  Some days Antoine got so mad about money that he threatened to smash the glass globe on his head … Every time I expected him to leave … But not at all! … It was getting to be a regular habit, like with us at home …

  But Madame Gorloge didn’t get upset like Mama … The roaring and bellowing didn’t interfere with her knitting. Whenever things began to look desperate, little Robert would crawl under the workbench … There he was safe … but he wouldn’t miss a second of the corrida. He’d eat a slice of bread and butter …

  When there wasn’t a sou in the place to pay Antoine on Saturday, we’d always, at the last minute, find a few coins in the bottom of a drawer to round out the sum … There was always something … We even had our emergency fund in the big kitchen closet … our cargo of cameos … our stock of delirium … our mythological treasure … that was our last resort … It was no time for hesitation …

  In the leanest weeks I’d unload them by weight, some place … any place … at the Village Suisse, across the street at the Temple … on the sidewalk at the Porte Kremlin … They’d always bring in five francs or so… .

  Never since engraving had gone out had a single gram of gold spent more than three days at Gorloge’s. What re
pair work we picked up we’d deliver in hurry, the same week. Nobody was very trusting … Three or four times, on Saturdays, I took care of the deliveries, to the Place des Vosges, the rue Royale, as usual on the run. In those days nobody talked about hardship. It wasn’t until much later that people began to realize how lousy rotten it was to be a worker. The suspicion was just dawning. About seven in the evening, in the middle of the summer, it wasn’t cool on the Boulevard Poissonnière on my way back from my cross-country efforts. I remember that we’d stop at the fountain, under the trees by the Théâtre de l’Ambigu … and toss off two or three cups of water, we even had to wait in line … We’d sit down on the steps of the theater and rest a minute. There were stragglers from all over, still trying to get their breath … It was a perfect place for collectors of cigarette butts, sandwich men, pickpockets, bookmakers on the prowl, small-time pimps, and bums of every description, by the tens and dozens … You’d hear talk about hard times, about little bets you could make … horses that were sure to place … and news of the velodrome … We’d pass La Patrie from hand to hand for the races and the want ads …

  The song hit at the time was “Matchiche” … Everybody’d whistle it while sauntering around the kiosk … waiting to take a leak … And then we’d cross the street and start off again … The dust was thickest on the rue du Temple, where the street was being ripped up … They were digging for the métro … Then came the square with the trees on it, a lot of alleys, the rue Greneta, the rue Beaubourg … The rue Elzévir is a long way … around seven in the evening. It’s way at the other end of the district.

  Little Robert the apprentice … his mother lived in Épernon, he sent her all his pay, twelve francs a week, plus his board … he slept under the workbench on a mattress that he rolled up himself in the morning. I watched my step with the kid. I was very careful, I didn’t tell any stories, I’d decided to keep my nose clean …